Snippets of Skyrim
by SkyforgeSteel
Summary: The adventures of a female Nord Dovahkiin with a soft spot for a certain werewolf in short snapshots.. Not the whole game plot, just the bits i want to write about :P
1. The Barrow

**_Bleak Falls Barrow_**

The warrior's breath misted faintly in the barrows chill air. Bleached bone fragments shifted underfoot, the sound echoing around the cramped tunnels and dusty chambers. Eerie lighting falling from above cast the maiden's bare upper arms in a pallid ghostly light, glinting on the fresh nicks on her iron breastplate. Her hardy Nordish body was tense as a spring, fully alert for the slightest sign of danger.

Human voices at the other end of the chamber. Probably the bandits the Valerius man had spoken of. Under the metal her heartbeat quickened. One hand traced the lengthy grip of the greatsword at her back.

An arm reached around her body like a snake, pinning the warrior against her ambusher's thick torso. The accumulated stench of ale, leather and sweat was overpowering.

"I'd gut you right now if it wouldn't be more fun to take it slow-"

The Nord spun sharply and slammed backwards, buffeting the man between the stone wall and her iron plate. With a grunt he loosed his hold, and in an instant his intended victim leaped free, drawing her sword in a single movement and bringing the blow round. The cold blade sang through the air, striking deep and true. Dark blood spurted over the stones. Growing up in an Orc stronghold, one picked up a few things.

As his body fell to the floor Nord maiden froze.

She kept her sword at the ready. It was almost five feet long, designed for the powerful, stubborn fighting style she preferred. Not many got back up after a double handed swing from one such as this. Yesterday she had forged it, cobbling together the few coins she had to her name in this country for iron. The blacksmith had looked her up and down and proclaimed that such a girl would never be fit to lift the blade, let alone wield it. She had spent the next ten minutes proving him wrong, and winning a hundred-septum wager into the bargain. When the burly man had finally conceded, sweat pouring from his brow, the maiden simply walked away. Her winnings were left as payment.

The other two bandits, hearing the commotion, had drawn their own weapons. Another Nord like herself armed with a battleaxe and a Redguard woman with an arrow already knocked to her bow.

The warrior smiled grimly to herself. This she could handle.

The game changed when the first of the ancient dead sat up and took a swing at her. She parried on instinct, a moment later feeling the blank, icy glare of its long emptied sockets. The sight chilled her to the bone. Its features were stretched thin over the angular skull, the dead flesh translucent and brittle. Armour still hung from rotted straps over its emaciated frame, etched with strange markings the Nord had never before seen.

She stood transfixed. Then a withered hand wielding an axe swung round, and her body reacted is if it were just another opponent. The great blade came to bear, and it seemed that the dead could be twice-slain after all.

Draugr. The second came easier after that, and the next, and the next, as long as she didn't meet the glow of the hollow eyes.

Though the most horrific, the undead were not the only dangers of the barrow. Twice mouldering ropes gave way, loosing hot lanterns into pools of oil and setting blasts that shook the walls. The maiden had flung herself clear in time, but the ferocity of the explosions was terrible. Hidden plates released swinging axes, large enough to cleave a troll in two. The hot rush of adrenaline as the warrior flattened her body to the wall set her limbs a-thrill. Realising the fact that she was grinning, the Nord had questioned her own sanity, but the fact remained that this was the most alive she'd felt in an age. Helgen… that was a dark dream, but this, this was a road she had chosen, and it felt good.

But after several hours in the stifling gloom, every other corpse reaching for her throat with its wizened fingers, the feeling faded. The Nord dared not loose the death grip upon her sword hilt, and the pressure of being constantly on the alert began to eat away at her. She began to wonder just how far underground she had come, and if she could find the way back if she turned around now. The pressure of the mountain above was almost a tangible sensation.

After what seemed like days but what cannot have been more than eighteen hours without sleep or sunlight the tunnel widened, and a long hallway carven with strange figures spread out into the darkness before the wanderer. Warriors, creatures, mages and demons, all frozen in amber stone. They almost seemed to shift in the flickering torchlight, carrying on their eternal silent dance of conflict and pain. There was a door, with a central keyhole and three wheels that still turned with a shove, despite the dust of years. There was something about the keyhole…almost like the indentation of a claw…The claw! The bandits had had a pile of treasure, but the one piece that had mattered was a golden trinket, shaped like a dragon's claw. That was what she had been hired to recover, and recover it she had. Now to only escape the depths of the barrow with it. Looking closer, the underside of the claw was carved with three totem animals; an owl, a moth, and an ice bear. When the three wheels were turned to the corresponding animals, the key clicked into the mechanism and the door fell open.

At once the scent of fresh air flooded her nostrils. Light, spilling down from cavities in the cavern roof, pooled around a raised dais. A stairway, leading upward, promised to return the warrior to the surface world. Greenery had even sprung up, and a slender stream wound its way through the cave.

Throwing caution to the winds, the Nord ran forward. She could almost feel the snow on her lips, the caress of the chill breeze tugging at her hair. Her sword slack in a one-handed grip, she clattered up the steps. Just as she reached the dais, however, a roaring in her ears almost knocked her dizzy. A thousand voices, chanting, singing, calling to her. Almost without knowing it, her footsteps were dragged toward a wall. A wall covered in strange markings, almost slash wounds in the rock. The maiden's vision blurred and she sank to her knees as a force, visceral in its intensity, hummed through her bones. The chanting became a roaring of the blood in her ears, as a blinding silver light burned into her retinas. Her stomach churned, her bones shuddered and her eyes watered, as one sole single word filled her consciousness:

_ FUS…_

The crack of the sarcophagus lid splitting open almost didn't penetrate her stunned reverie. The walking corpse-lord lurched toward the kneeling woman, raising an ancient two-handed blade above her head, but the Nord parried at the last second, looking up from where she knelt into the rotting face only inches from her own, held separate by the virtue of the two crossed blades, one cold and age-old, one but two days forged and barely scarred. The Draugr snarled like a raging beast, its corpse-breath foul and choking. A maggot writhed in the hollow of its left cheek.

Seasoned soldiers have quavered at such a sight; the nerves of the most battle-hardened Sellswords of Tamriel have broken under the glacial gaze of the northern dead. But the red-headed swordmaiden, clad in new-forged iron without a septim to her name, on that fateful day beneath the rock and bones of Skyrim, stood firm.

Her head was full of voices chanting a tongue she knew not, her heart was full of sky and wind and sunlight, and her sword was a thunderbolt as the parry became a shove with all of her might, staggering her assailant backward before the blade continued its motion and bit deep into the ribcage of her foe with a sickening sound. She yelled like a hunting hawk in triumph as the Draugr's spine was sundered, but her victory was too swiftly assumed, as the broken, impaled body cast aside its weapon and dragged itself further along the blade, reaching for the maidens face with gnarled, dry, claw-like fingers until its stomach touched the crossguard. It grappled for a chokehold, but the warrior leaped back with a cry of dismay, pulling the sword free and swinging it back around to cleave the helmed head from the corpse's shoulders. It spun through the air and landed with a scuffle at the bottom of the stairway. For one hideous moment, the cold blue eyes continued to bore into her own from the severed head, before their sickly pale light went out.

Pausing only to gather up the cold Draugr blade, the Nord hurtled up the stairway and at last filled her lungs with the taste of Skyrim snow.


	2. Talk of Dragons

**_Dragonsreach_**

Irileth's hand flew to her sword as the great doors of Dragonsreach were flung open. An armed warrior was running straight towards her Jarl. Cursing the slow reactions of the guards, the elf leaped forward, putting her lithe, wirey body between the intruder and Balgruuf.

"What is the meaning of this?" She snarled.

The warrior raised their hands in a gesture of peace, before casting off a horned iron helmet and shaking out a tangle of flame-coloured hair.

"I have a message for the Jarl." The young woman panted and pushed back a stray tress from her large hazel eyes. A fresh graze stood out bright against the pale hue of her skin. She carried a fraying satchel on one shoulder and an iron greatsword over the other. Travel grime stained her boots, smearing the finely worked floor panels.

"Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors- " The housecarl was interrupted by a deep, commanding voice that echoed through the high-roofed palace. No-one else would dare speak over the quick-tempered and quicker-bladed dunmer.

"Peace, Irileth. Let her speak."

Irileth scowled, but backed down. Who was she anyway, this grubby wayfarer, who dared to just march up to her Jarl. She was clearly a native of Skyrim, with the typical fair complexion and sturdy frame of such a Nord. But what else? A brigand, Sellsword or Stormcloak? Irileth kept her blade to hand.

The stranger approached the throne.

"Helgen has been destroyed-" She had to raise her voice to continue over the cacophony of gasps and cries of outrage. "-Destroyed, by a dragon."

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun sat up and fixed her under his glare. His gilt-embroidered robes echoed the golden hue of his neatly trimmed beard. His hands were that of a nobleman, free of callouses and adorned with gems. The juxtaposition of this man and the scruffy traveller would almost have been comic, if there had been any in the mood to appreciate it.

"A dragon? Are you sure?"

The stranger's eyes grew distant.

"I was there. Trust me, it was a dragon."

Silence roared around the long hall. Finally the Jarl beckoned his housecarl over to him.

"Irileth, what should we-"

The stranger interrupted him, speaking fiercly.

"You must send a detachment to Riverwood at once. They have no defences, and barely a handful of men to-"

"How dare you tell Jarl Balgruuf what he must or must not do!" Irileth spat.

"No Irileth, in this she is right. Have Captain Marro make the arrangements."

With an exasperated _hrumph_, the elf stormed off.

The court mage had observed this exchange silently with interest. Now he stepped forward in a sweep of indigo robes.

"My Lord, if you've quite finished with our young friend here, I may have a use for her…"

The Jarl settled back on his cushions and adjusted the gold circlet on his brow.

"What is it, Farengar? Another of your little experiments?"

"No, Sir. Well, yes, but first I need someone to delve into a dark, dangerous, dank crypt…why do all the nasty words begin with D?...a crypt, anyway, and fetch me something that may, or may not, be there. Since I myself am obviously far too valuable, and we clearly can't spare any of the guard, I thought she'd do. Looks the type, doesn't she?" The mage smirked. The girl's expression of discomfort like a horse being assessed by a potential buyer amused him.

"It's at Bleak Falls Barrow. Do you know the place?" Farengar felt that speaking slowly and simply to basic Sellsword-types was generally for the best.

The warrior snorted. "Yes, I know the gods-damned place. And I'm not going back."

"But you'll be paid! What more do you want?"

"I said, I'm not going back." The mage noticed for the first time the steely quality in the girl's green-gold eyes. "I'll show you what I found there, but no more."

Farengar nodded. "That would be…acceptable. This way."

Sighing, the warrior followed him into an antechamber that was brimming over with dripping candles, shimmering soulgems and leather-bound tomes of arcane lore.

"You're really living the cliché here aren't you…" She muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing…"

"Anyway, now I'll see what you've got," The man demanded imperiously. The girl glowered at him. She was unsure if that was meant to be an innuendo, but the redhead was taking no chances. She upturned the contents of her satchel, and a cascade of aging cutlery, polished gemstones, a dagger or two, what looked to be embalming tools, old Nordic jewellery, sand, grit, an empty bottle of mead with the _Sleeping Giant_ label, a blacksmith's hammer, a large package, a smaller square package and a stale sandwich crust.

The mage's eyes flickered hungrily toward the jewels. The girl brought him up short by planting her palms on the opposite table edge, her belongings blocked from view by her iron plated frame. Although short for a Nord, her armoured form was sturdy-looking.

"Just what was it you were after?" She enquired icily. There was something about the mage that put her on edge.

"Ah, a stone. A stone tablet, I mean."

Wordlessly she handed him the smaller bundle. The sackcloth was hastily unbound to reveal a flat square stone. A stylised dragon was carved upon one side, strange markings on the other that the warrior had been unable to make sense of.

"By the Divines…" Farengar breathed. He held the dusty tablet aloft triumphantly, before dashing off into an alcove, muttering rapidly to himself.

It was several minutes before he returned. The warrior idled away the time by perusing the titles of the great volumes that lay scattered around the room. She had just begun flicking through the yellowed pages of _Antecedents of Dwemer Law ,_ when-

"Don't touch that!"

Startled, her battle instincts snapped into action. In an instant she had drawn the iron greatsword at her back, swept her leg under the feet of the assailant, toppling him, and rested the tip of her sword to kiss Farengar's throat.

The mage glowered up at her. The girl at least had the good grace to look embarrassed, her pale cheeks flushing pink under the grime. "I've, umm, been a little on edge lately."

"Evidently." Her victim replied dryly. She helped him to his feet, where the mage's roving eye latched onto the other large package amongst the debris of the traveller's belongings. "Let's see what else…-" He began to unwrap the five foot long bundle then flinched as if stung.

"It's cold. I know. I was hoping you could tell me why." With more care, the warrior pulled back the rest of the hide wrapping to display a sword, double-handed like her own. The metal was an unusual dark grey in colour, like pewter, but that soft metal would never be used for a weapon. The surface of the sword had a pale, shifting, iridescent quality, as if a wafer thin layer of glass or crystal had been laid over it. The blade tapered from the hilt before widening again about eight inches from the tip. The crossguard was curved and asymmetrical, formed into mesmeric twisting patterns. It was a strangely beautiful sword, but only the metal was left. Any leather that may once have bound the hilt was long rotted away over the centuries in the Barrow.

Farengar cleared his throat. "Well, it's obviously forged in the style of the ancient Nords…doesn't look like a modern imitation…But a blade such as this would have been buried with its master, so how is it in _your_ possession? Clearly worth more than all the rest of this mess put together…"

The warrior pretended not to hear that last part. "It _was_ buried with him. He _un-buried_ himself and came at me, so I cut his head off and took the sword."

"Oh. How very, errm, _traditional _of you." Farengar thought to himself just how much he disliked dealing with ruffians. It made him feel…grubby.

"So can I wield it? I'd have to re-bind the grip, touching that metal full on would most like give you frostbite…"

Ah yes. The _can I kill things with it_ clause. Farengar wished, not for the first time, that he had been born an Altmer. Or even a Breton. Other Nords bored him with their endless fascination with weaponry and warcraft.

"Yes, you can. What you have there is a decent frost enchantment, valuable, but not so uncommon. Its power will wane after a while, but I can give you soul gems to recharge it. For a price-"

"Farengar, you need to come at once!" The urgently barked command interrupted the mage's mercantile overtures.

All of the servants and attendees, Thanes and noblemen of Dragonsreach arose in alarm as Irileth, half carrying a wounded soldier, staggered up the steps. Supporting her burden with one arm, she swept the end of the banquet table clear and laid the man upon it. The clatter of cutlery and spilled wine outraged the redguard who had been seated there.

"Just what do you think you're-"

"Oh get your damned priorities straight Nazeem" Irileth snarled, her scarlet eyes flashing. The dark elf drew a dagger and began to cut the stitching of the guardsman's already torn hauberk, peeling away the scaled leather to free the wounds beneath.

Several gashed bisected the skin of the man's torso. Almost the whole of his left arm was an indigo bruise, and his cheek was blistered an angry burnt red. A snowy haired serving girl fetched a bowl of water and a cloth, and Irileth did her best to clean away the blood, dust, and…soot?

"What happened?" She asked softly.

Farengar approached the table tentatively, then with a nod from Irileth placed his hands over the worst of the wounds. A golden light shone from between the mage's fingers as the torn flesh began slowly to knit back together.

The girl with the greatsword gasped. "Will you teach me to do that?"

Farengar ignored her.

At last the wounded man drew a long ragged breath and spoke.

"At the Western Watchtower. It killed everyone…_everyone_… A dragon."


	3. Mirmulnir

**_Mirmulnir_**

Whiterun's streets were a clutter with activity as Irileth hastily assembled the troop of soldier outside Warmaiden' armoury. The smith, Adrianne, had finished going over their gear, and now it was left to the dark elf to shore up their spirits. To convince a dozen town guard used to soft beds and softer bellies that confronting the first dragon seen in a thousand years was a good idea. _Come on Irileth, inspiring words… _

Somehow the right lines and tired old clichés of glory tripped from her tongue. The housecarl studied the men before her as she spoke, noting the way they stood a little straighter, spoke a little bolder as she called for their responses. It was a shame they would be without the handful of mercenaries that frequented the city, but haggling their prices would have taken far too long.

And, shuffling awkwardly on the edge of the group, the young warrior with the greatsword. The iron half-helm obscured her features once more. Irileth wondered if the eyes behind the darkened slits were wide with fear. Had the girl's bold words the day before been mere bluster? Balgruuf had kitted her out with new beaten steel gauntlets. He seemed to have faith in her, but Irileth had seen her lord wrong before.

"…So what do you say?" She concluded. "Shall we go kill us a dragon?" The roar of assent almost made the elf smile.

The watchtower, when they reached it, was a ruin. Only a charred shell of crumbling masonry remained. The blackened heath smoked with its recent harrowing. Patches of earth still glowed with embers.

Of the dragon itself there was no sign.

Irileth halted her contingent in the shelter of an earthen ledge.

"I need everyone to keep their head down, and stay on the alert. We don't know what it is that we're dealing with here-"

"Did you hear that?" Exclaimed the Nord girl. Irileth was on the brink of a scathing response, but then she heard it too. A faint cry, a moan. A survivor?

"Hold-!" The housecarl began, but the Nord was gone, breaking cover to sprint toward the source of the sound. Irileth swore, motioning for the guards to remain still and silent. She watched with bated breath.

Casting around amidst the devastation, the lone figure of the warrior was silhouetted against the first watery light of dawn. Suddenly she dropped to her knees, frantically pulling aside the rubble. The dark elf thought she could see a corner of the butter-yellow tabard of the Whiterun Guard uniform, besmirched with dust and blood.

"Irileth!" Called the girl, but before the elf could decide a course of action an ear-splitting bellow rent the skies. A huge dark shape swooped down from behind the shadow of a cloud bank.

"Archers!" Irileth shouted, gathering a bright ball of magicka on her palm.

Out in the open, the Nord looked up in alarm as the beast dived low, its jaws filling with a swelling ball of bright, iridescent orange. She flung herself aside as the torrent of flame blasted the earth where she had knelt, then choked down a sob for the man she had tried to save.

All to ashes now.

Irileth saw her draw the greatsword at her back, then lost the warrior amidst the ensuing chaos. The elf screamed commands for her soldiers to fan out, but she could scarcely hear herself over the thunder of the creature's roar, the crashing beating of wings, the reverberating din of the last of the masonry crumbling, the screaming of her men as they were seized in the great jaws then flung aside, the all-encompassing _whoomph_ of the inferno. _This is how the world ends_, she thought numbly.

The guardsmen were armed with longbows as well as their blades, but it was impossible for them to co-ordinate a united volley amid the maelstrom of fire, and single shots every so often in a snatched moment appeared to have little impact, simply clattering off of the shining bronze scales. Irileth's sword was useless whilst the dragon was still airborne, so she focussed her mind and hurled bolts of lightning, as hard as she could, over and over, feeling a grim flicker of triumph as her target broke off a blast of flame to snarl in pain. _Divines save us, we might actually have a chance_, she thought, but as she reached for her magic once more, the elf found that her reserves were dry.

The retaking of the Western Watchtower had descended into nightmare. All thought of killing the dragon was gone. It was all Irileth and her men could do to evade each blast of death. Any arrow let off in a lucky split second of peace was a rare bonus.

Suddenly, somehow, Irileth heard a female voice shouting, not in pain but in anger. She turned to see the Nord warrior standing straight, waving her arms and backing away from the ruin of the tower. She was spouting a stream of curses to make an Orc blush.

_ Surely she's not trying to- She is!_ Thought Irileth in astonishment, as the dragon ceased its vindictive assault on the guards and turned its attention to the frantically gesticulating figure. As soon as the girl saw that her ploy had worked, both hands were back on her greatsword in an instant. It was not her original but the cold crystalline blade. Its icy surface shone gold in the amber light of the fires.

The dragon swooped down, a pillar of flame scourging the strip of earth beneath. The warrior swiftly sidestepped, continuing the motion into a pivot, adding the momentum of her iron-clad form to the single swing of the sword. The barrow-blade bit deep into the base of the creatures wing. It howled with rage, trying to pull out of the dive, but vital tendons had been severed and the great bulk crashed to the ground, skidding and gouging a furrow into the scorched heath.

"Yes!" Cried Irileth, feeling a new hope fill her bones. "Attack, attack!" She drew her longsword, relishing the rasp of steel tearing from its sheath, and charged. The remaining soldiers rallied, but what was it they were shouting? It sounded like a name, the Nord girl's name? Irileth hadn't bothered to ask her before. Now she felt that she'd misjudged the scruffy traveller.

But even grounded, a dragon is still lethal. As the line of soldiers drew near, the beast spun, knocking the guards flying with a sweep of its serpentine tail. Irileth, winded, could only watch as the beast drew back its head and opened its jaws wide for the blast of flame that would end them all.

But the blast never came. The young Nord had caught up to the dragon once more, delivering a fierce blow to the side of its skull, staggering the creature and blinding its right eye. Utterly enraged, it turned on the girl and knocked her flat with a sweep of its good wing. Her helmet flew loose, spilling out red hair as bright as the surrounding dragonfires.

The beast's great head, as long as the warrior's whole body, reared up to deliver the fatal blow. With some remaining last vestige of strength the warrior kicked upward with an iron-plated boot, catching the dragon under the chin, at the soft spot where jaw meets throat. The dragon flinched, and the warrior seized that moment to ram her blade upwards, under the jaw and deep into her enemy's brain.

The dragon shuddered, and lay dead.


	4. Somewhere in the Wilderness

_What does it mean?_ The same pack of thoughts going round and round the warrior's head. All the way from Whiterun she had tried to ignore the words of the guards. The things they had said as she had dragged herself out from under the torrent of blood pouring from the dragon's ruptured brain onto her face, as the bones had begun to smoulder around her, as scales once hard as stone turned to ash on the wind.

One word in particular that haunted her every step.

_ Dragonborn._

The girl stared into the flickering light of her campfire, knees hugged to her chest. She watched the way the amber glow played over the lattice of scratches and dints of the iron helmet at her feet. The empty eye slits remained dark. With the helmet she was faceless. Maybe that was for the best. Already some of the folk around Whiterun had begun whispering and pointing as she walked by.

So she had left. The Jarl had given some rambling speech about climbing seven thousand steps to become a dragonslayer, but in the space of her own head the warrior thought that that was a load of crap. She had killed that dragon through years of battle training, luck and sheer nerve, nothing more.

She stamped down the voice in her head that was whispering about whatever it was that had flowed into her, at the very moment the cold barrow-blade took the dragon's life. An awareness, something not-mortal. And a sense of power, absolute power, if she could just reach for it.

She had _had_ to leave, to get somewhere far away. _Riften?_ She would study the map in the morning.

The girl sighed. Despite all that had happened, Skyrim was a beautiful place. Growing up within the walls of the stronghold, she had seen the mountains in the distance, like great fortresses roofed with snow, and felt a longing deep in her bones. Her Orc family had taught her well, the crafts of bladework and smithing were stitched into the banner of who she was, but… She had always known she couldn't stay there forever. Now the clean scent of fresh snow and the rich tang of the pine trees around her felt like home.

Somewhere in the wilderness, the Nord pulled her furs around her, and with her travel pack for a pillow, one hand on her greatsword, she slept.


	5. Jorvaskr

**_Jorvaskr_**

_A fountain of blood as the axe comes down. Kneeling in the spreading red and awaiting the same. Then the sky splits apart and falls down around me. The thunderous sound of the world's ending makes my bones shake as I run, the ropes at my wrists chaffing my skin. Then I see his eye, red as a wound but hard and cold as stone. And the World Eater sees me._

The Nord awoke with a gasp, her heart racing. Whiterun's newest Companion was still haunted by her first day in Skyrim. Reaching for her greatsword, she gripped the hilt with both hands whilst her breathing slowed. The familiar feel of worn leather was soothing. Ria and Njada snored softly across the room. The warrior didn't mind sharing; the narrow bunk was the closest she'd felt to comfort in weeks. And the Companions themselves, although gruff, felt like honourable people. The traveller felt like she may have finally found somewhere to call her own, and people to share it with. This feeling of belonging… it was a new thing for the maiden.

As her thoughts mused over this, another sound met her ears, delicate and haunting. Music. Jorvaskr had no bard that she knew of, so, wrapping her blanket over her night shift, the Nord went to investigate. The melody of the lute was halting, restarting every so often when a wrong note was hit, but somehow beautiful, like a clear cold stream running over the rocks.

She followed the sound along the wood-panelled corridor to a door. She pressed her ear against it and listened, spellbound.

Abruptly, the music ceased.

"Well, you gonna come in or what?" A low voice called, somewhat reluctantly.

Farkas. Not known for saying much, it had seemed like the burly Nord preferred to let his deeds speak for him when the traveller had first crossed paths with him and the others on the plains. She remembered the tenacity with which he had faced up to that giant as it flattened the farmland around them. Now, sitting on the edge of the bunk, his dark hair was loose, shadowing his eyes.

"I couldn't sleep…" He waved her to sit down. The worn mattress creaked as she did so, after a moment's hesitation. "I didn't know you played the lute."

"I don't, really." Farkas laid aside the instrument and scratched his chin, the dark stubble dusting his jawline rasping in the silence. The newest Companion did her best to coax words from the taciturn warrior. She knew it wasn't that he was unfriendly; he had been welcoming enough when showing her around. It just seemed like he was a little lost when it wasn't obvious what he was supposed to be doing in a situation, or his brother wasn't there to lead the way. Vilkas had struck her as handsome but somewhat cocky, even downright condescending before the Harbinger had shown her his approval. Farkas, however…she wasn't sure quite what to make of him.

"I wouldn't say that! About not playing, I mean. That sounded pretty good. We didn't really have music where I grew up. It's…nice…"

"Yeah well. Even if I could play well, I'm no wordsmith, and I can't sing. The Bards College'd never have me."

"I'd still listen to you."

"So it wasn't me keeping you up then?" His sky-coloured eyes sparkled, and after a moment she realised he was teasing her. She laughed aloud.

"No, that was..ah, other stuff. I don't want to think about that now…" She looked down, and Farkas saw a shadow flit over her face.

"I get, er, bad dreams a lot myself." He fingered the neck of the lute, where a tiny silver wolf was inlaid into the wood. "You could stay here if you like," He blurted suddenly. "don't worry, I don't mean like that! I'll sleep on the floor."

The swordmaiden gave him a sidelong glance. Since she left the stronghold she'd quickly got used to men propositioning her with depressing regularity. It both mystified and irritated her, since the Orcs back home had praised her for her skill at arms rather than her body. The glacier-blue gaze of the man beside her, however, was free from guile. She got the feeling he couldn't be anything but straightforward if he tried. _How strange…_

"Lucky I brought my own blanket then," She smiled, gesturing to the fabric wrapped around her. The girl realised with a jolt that this was the first time she hadn't taken her sword with her everywhere she went. _I really must be getting comfortable here…_

Her companion grunted his assent, laying out spare bedding for himself on the floor.

"Farkas? Will you keep playing? I didn't mean to disturb your practice. Just pretend I'm not here."

"As you wish." He smiled up at her. The warrior felt a sudden urge to reach out and trace her fingers along the square line of his jaw, to tug at the dark hair that brushed against his bare shoulders. Being raised in the Companions' mead hall had certainly shaped the young Nord into a strong, battle-hardened man, his broad torso laced with scars, but his smile was so open and warm it was almost like that of a child. She could not help but return it, nodding to the sheathed blade in the corner.

"Your sword is beautiful by the way."

"One of Eorlund's finest. I noticed earlier we have the same taste in weapons, for something large and dangerous."

"Well, I grew up in an Orc tribe. The other kids were always bigger than me, so I trained with the heavier weapons to keep up."

"Bet they were greener than you, too,"

She laughed again. "Shut up! I was envious of the green. My sister, she was the loveliest girl in the stronghold. I sulked for a week when my parents told me I'd never have fangs like hers."

"Having fangs ain't all it's cracked up to be…"

She yawned. "Huh?"

"Nuthin'. Go to sleep, new girl."

The Dragonborn's eyelids grew heavy as the lilting notes of the lute wound round and round her battered mind, and the warrior finally sank back into sleep.


	6. In The Rift

**_The Rift_**

The palomino stallion's bright coat was almost luminous in the twilight, the rhythm of hooves drowned out in the drumming of the rain. Heavy droplets resounded on the steel helm of the rider, running over the full-face plate and spilling onto the chestplate beneath, catching in the etched spirals and patterns worked lovingly into the polished metal.

Seeing the grey walled fortress up ahead, the rider reined in the stallion and dismounted. Tethering the horse to a tree, she paused. Breathed deeply. Overhead, the clouds rumbled like a sabrecat in its lair. The air tasted of leafmould and smoke. The Nord's lungs hungered for the crisp clean tang of snow. The Rift was too wet, too green for her liking. Still, she savoured the moment, as she did every time.

It was important, this moment of peace. It could be the last she ever had. Or so she told herself, trying to shake the feeling that that could never be true, that she was destined for more. It was naïve, she knew, and thinking like that could easily get her killed, but the thought was there. It made her reckless, and she knew it.

She kissed the stallion's velvet nose and marched up to the forts entryway. It was in poor condition, only a few wooden barricades blocking her passage. These were easily splintered by the claymore slung across her back.

"Sorry Eorlund…" She muttered, knowing what the old smith would say about her use of the skyforge steel for such a purpose.

Maintaining her grip on the heavy sword, she strode into the midst of the courtyard. The sibilant hiss of several blades being drawn heralded her arrival. The Nord pushed up the face-plate of her helm and did her best to project her voice.

"Haadvun Stonefist, by order of Jarl Leila Lawgiver you are under arrest. Put down your weapons now, or-"

She sidestepped as a flight of arrows zipped down from the battlements.

"-Or not…" She re-adjusted her helmet, and turned in time to parry a blow from a crude iron battle axe. Her steel sang as it arced around and flicked toward the axe-wielder's throat.

First blood would have been shed, but for a sudden blow to the small of her back that sent the warrior staggering. A second bandit had pitched in, this time a Breton armed with a mace. He yelled in glee, and clumsily swung forward again. Despite his enthusiasm, the mace was slow, and the Nord was able to regain her balance before plunging her greatsword through his chest.

The cheap hide armour split like a berry, but the weight of his body dragged her blade down and the Nord had to yank sharply to free it. In the instant that the gap between her chestplate and pauldron was exposed, a lucky arrow bit into the web of muscle under her left arm.

Her oath of pain became a snarl of rage as four more bandits charged at once, and that kept her busy a while longer. The clash of blades was almost drowned out by the storm that was fast approaching its crescendo. The blood mingled with the rain and sank into the earth. They did not last long.

The rest of the gang were ranged along the walls armed with bows, the impact of which clattered harmlessly off the warrior's plate armour. They were not important. Her target would be inside the tower.

Along a walkway and onto the walls, dispatching one archer with her blade and another with a swift kick over the battlements. The first tremor of lightning split the sky, as if the Nine themselves wished to join battle.

The door to the tower was aged oak, barred with iron, and the woman knew in an instant that she was not getting in that way. Frustrated, she smashed the hilt of the greatsword against the lock, but it held, and even if lockpicking were her forte, she still wouldn't have tried it under the hail of arrows that continued to clatter onto the stonework beside her. One ricocheted from her chestplate, adding to the latticework of scars in the steel.

The tower was partially damaged up one side, jagged masonry precariously jutting over the courtyard. Muttering obscenities under her breath, the Nord sheathed her sword and began to climb.

Haadvun scrabbled frantically with the key to the loot chest. It had to be here, it had to… One tiny vial that could get him out of here alive. Invisibility potions were costly, but… The sound of his men screaming outside made his pulse race even harder.

Just as the lock clicked open a scraping sound behind him sent Haadvun's hand flying to the weapon beside him. Through the window climbed a figure, momentarily silhouetted against a shard of lightning. Without hesitation the bandit chief swung his warhammer.

The Nord woman half-managed to duck, evading the heavy hammer head but still cuffed by the handle shaft, which sent her head thudding into the stone wall. As she fell, her armoured boot collided with her enemy's knee, sending him stumbling back.

The warrior swore as she realised the face-plate of her helm was damaged, the warped steel obscuring her vision. She tugged it free as she climbed to her feet, shaking out a tangle of thick red hair. A streak of crimson welled up over her brow where the steel had caved inward, threatening to run into her eyes and blind her. The sword was back in her hands now. Blood from the previous struggle was already being washed away by the rain, leaving the bare steel clean and bright as fresh fallen snow.

Haadvun eyed her warily, shifting from foot to foot and keeping his grip on the warhammer.

"How many are you?" He nodded toward the window, indicating the trail of chaos that had scattered his men.

"Just me. You can yield now if you like. The Jarl wants to see your face behind bars, but I don't much care if it's attached to your body or not. I'll get paid either way."


End file.
